doesn't it?

Blue Iris
Now that I’m free to be myself, who am I?
Can’t fly, can’t run, and see how slowly I walk.
Well, I think, I can read books.
"What’s that you’re doing?”
the green-headed fly shouts as it buzzes past.
I close the book.
Well, I can write down words, like these, softly.
“What’s that you’re doing?” whispers the wind, pausing
in a heap just outside the window.
Give me a little time, I say back to its staring, silver face.
It doesn’t happen all of a sudden, you know.
“Doesn’t it?” says the wind, and breaks open, releasing
distillation of blue iris.
And my heart panics not to be, as I long to be,
the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.
--Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver and other essential cartography here.  Thanks Rob. 

greenhouse

I stopped on my way because of the irises outside but it was a warm day and the doors were open so I wandered inside.  I fell in love with the succulents, myriad textures, soft palette, sculpted -- as if from porcelain by adoring hands.

pond

and one of my favorite fields.

closer

A recovery of perspective:

Move in closer to know the vastness of the divine.

wake

...the moment the sun drops below the horizon but leaves soft fires in the clouds -- the sweet wake of a temporary retreat. 

backyard stars

...and waxy new leaves catching moonlight.

Sometimes it's hard to know when to call it a day.

surfacing